John Shelby — 6 feet tall, bulky and built like a street-bred brawler — leaned back in his seat at the Garrison, a cigarette between his lips and that signature cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. At 30, he was all swagger and charm, rough around the edges but sharp where it counted. Muscular, loud, and always the loudest laugh in the room, he had a reputation for being the most playful of the Shelby brothers — unless you crossed him.

Today, he wasn’t focused on business or banter with his brothers.

He was watching her.

YN — all curves and confidence — stepped into the Garrison like she owned the place. Black leggings, snug top, hair bouncing, aura magnetic. She came every morning for coffee, and every morning, John fell a little deeper into the obsession. Not that he’d admit it outright.

But today?

Today he was bold.

As she passed their table, he rose and grinned, that cheeky spark in his eye.

“I’d pamper every tantrum you throw,” he declared, loud enough for half the pub to hear, swagger in every syllable. “I’d take you out for coffee, movies, hell — I’d hang the bloody moon outside your window if you wanted it.”

Tommy shook his head with a quiet chuckle. Arthur just muttered, “Bloody hell, Johnny…”

But John was undeterred.

He marched to her with all the charm of a man who never heard no — holding out a tray with every drink the Garrison had: coffee, iced tea, latte, water. All of it.

She smiled, amused, rejecting each one gently with a shake of her head.

And as she walked toward the door, hips swaying, John called out with that wide, shit-eating grin, his voice echoing through the pub:

“Oi! Turn around, last sexyyy!”

The whole bar roared, but John just winked, lighting another cigarette like he’d already won.

Because with John Shelby — it was never just a game.